Why would anyone want to write?
It devours your soul, growing from a tiny gnat into the most fearsome of beasts, spouting fire upon daily life and snatching the flesh from your relationships. A writer neither eats nor breathes anything other than words. A piece of toast becomes the “charred aftermath of an apathetic cuisinier”. A simple breath becomes a “raspy inhalation of one immersed in existence”.
No, only an idiot would ever take up the task of wielding words. And I am one such as he.
From the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep, I battle with that dragon, fighting the drudgery of reality until the times when I might cast my spells of imagery. Everything in my life revolves around it, my heart yearns for it with every beat, my brain wanders into realms of fantasy every chance it gets – dangerous stuff when crossing the road. All I can think of is the next tale, the next exploration of what might be.
I read others’ words and learn from them whenever possible – for I know I’m far from omnipotent, only an idiot thinks he is. I weather the storms of bad reviews and revel in the glory of the golden ones. All in pursuit of that dream, that illusory faultless tome. Will I ever find it? I have my doubts, but every writer does.
You can’t please everyone. Stephen King, a master of the craft, still gets bad reviews. How is this even possible? I’ve read his work, his words, his imaginary imaginings, and he holds greatness within his grasp. So how is it that such a brilliant wordsmith is unable to compose perfection?
J.K. Rowling wrote a series which buffeted the literary world, drawing readers into a grand tapestry of adventure through the eyes of a junior wizard. More and more people loved her work every day – and yet there were still those who remained unhappy, who complained and whined about her words with increasing fervor with each released novel. Now every book she releases is compared to her past, a yardstick nobody could maintain.
William Shakespeare, arguably the greatest playwright the world has ever seen, is despised by child and adult alike for his use of language long untouched in regular society. His soul screamed with emotion yearning for release through words, yet now it is scorned and scribbled upon, stretched into scripts filled with Hollywood pretension, the true majesty of his acts a mere shadow of the stage plays they once were.
So perfection in writing seems an unattainable goal. Does that mean I should give up? You might as well ask if I should give up breathing simply because there is a possibility I might inhale a bee and die horribly as my throat strangled me from within. Or perhaps I should stop eating for fear of swallowing improperly prepared meat, which might develop into a mutinous stomach tsunami, tearing apart my innards like a raging bull.
No, I am a writer. This is my fate, my road through life. I will create worlds and people who wander through them, all in an effort of discovering that sacred enigma that none before me have unlocked. But even if I don’t, I intend to produce a lot of drama along the way. For I am a soldier of fiction, a traveler of fantasy, an entrapper of imagination.
But above it all, I am a fool who believes I can.
